


Colour the Morning

by Makalaure



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Brotherhood, Drama, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 07:30:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2723879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makalaure/pseuds/Makalaure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Good morning," he says quietly, without looking at me. No one's said that to me in a long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colour the Morning

Warning for mature themes.

Many thanks to my betas, Linda Hoyland and Zopyrus. All remaining mistakes are mine.

Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's works.

Colour the Morning

The worst part about London, I think, not for the first time, is the drizzling. Usually, the heavens stay open while I go to work at the pancake house at eight in the morning, finish my shift as a waiter, and trudge back to my empty flat – which is what I am doing now.

A dark head passing by catches my eye, and I look at it eagerly, only for my heart to sink in disappointment again. Searching for Maglor has been an almost subconscious habit of mine for a while. Recently, thoughts of my brother have wormed their way into my mind and stayed put. I can hardly control the urge to wander the streets each day in the pale hope that he will somehow be in the same country and the same city that I am in.

It's not as if loneliness had ever been much of a problem for me. I've always enjoyed being alone. Yet even when everyone passed on, Maglor remained by my side, and we spent a long time travelling together. Having him with me was like expecting the sun to come up; it wasn't something I thought about.

I think about him too much now, so I'm grateful that my work allows me to concentrate on something else. When I'm busy, I'm content; I've always been like that.  
  
A shoulder rams into mine, and I stumble. I open my mouth to apologise for not paying attention to where I was walking, and feel my throat tighten. At first I don't dare to hope. His face is thinner than it ought to be, and his hair is not as short as mine, but just brushes his collarbones. He gasps, eyes widening, and turns to run, but I catch his wrist, not caring if I am rough.  
  
He grits his teeth and studies a spot behind my head, and his chest heaves. His stupid band t-shirt and faded jeans look like a costume, considering what he wore the last time I saw him. But those eyes are unchanged, if not a smidgen grimmer than they used to be.  
  
"It is you, isn't it?" I say, subconsciously slipping into Quenya. My old, lilting language sounds out of place in this world that is packed with machinery and noise and sleek lines, but right now I could not care less. "I know it's you. Why did you try to run? I thought you were dead."  
  
He purses his lips and seems at a loss for words. I make up for that. "Are you living here?" I ask. "Are you well? Where have you _been_? Have you..." I am afraid to ask if he has been looking for me. After all, he left without a word of warning. I just woke up one day and found that he was gone, and that he'd left our water-skin and most of the food with me.  
  
Maglor grimaces, and I am about to shake him when he says, "I don't have a mobile phone."  
  
I blink. "What?"  
  
"It's harder to locate someone without a mobile phone," he snaps. I'd nearly forgotten how irritable he can be when he wants to. "I didn't want anyone to find out about me. So I don't keep a phone, or a laptop – "  
  
"Neither do I, though I keep a mobile. Do you live here?" I ask again.  
  
"I do now. Let go of me."  
  
"No, you'll run." He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. "You're ill."  
  
He hisses and yanks his arm back, but can't get free. "I'm not. Go away." His voice is beginning to grow shrill. I don't care.  
  
"Come over to my place."  
  
He gapes, and his brows rise. "Come over," I persist, not caring a whit if I sound desperate. This is my brother, for heaven's sake. Maglor shakes his head, slowly. "I – "  
  
"My flat's just around the corner."  
  
Something in him seems to snap; his shoulders sag, and he suddenly looks tired. Sticking his knuckles in his eyes, he says, "As stubborn as you always were."  
  
In ten minutes I am opening the door of my apartment, and we step directly into the kitchen, which also serves as a living room. I tug off my jacket and hang the keys on their hook beside the entrance while Maglor takes a tentative nose about the place. There's a bedroom, which is curtained off, and a bathroom. I don't keep a t.v., since I prefer to read the newspaper, but there's a little red radio on the counter that I listen to sometimes.  
  
The bright, daisy-patterned curtains on the kitchen windows don't exactly match the rest of my washed-out flat. Maglor examines at them with his head tilted to one side, then looks down at his sneakers and says, "Nice place."  
  
I scoff.  
  
"No, really, it's..."  
  
"Charming?"  
  
"It could be." He gives something that faintly resembles a smile.  
  
"Well, you always liked cleaning up and decorating."  
  
"No."  
  
What am I supposed to say to that?  
  
Maglor glances out the window and his eyelashes catch the sunlight. He looks brittle, his collarbones jutting through his papery skin, and I feel I could break him like a twig with my remaining hand. I shudder at the thought. "Stay the night, won't you," I manage to say, my voice somewhat hoarse.  
  
He takes a slow, deep breath, briefly studies the floor, and then dumps his backpack on the table. Internally, I dance with glee, but I maintain a straight face and say, "We're going to have to share the bed."  
  
Maglor rolls his eyes so far back that I'm half-scared they'll soon be able to see his brain.

***

When I wake up, I panic because Maglor is absent, his pillow fluffed up and arranged neatly on his side of the bed. But then I notice his bag and his unlaced sneakers on the floor by the entrance, and release a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding. Suppressing a yawn, I glance at my bedside table; the digital clock reads 6:05 a.m. I get up and open the curtains above my bed. The morning sky is blueish-grey, the colour of murky water, and the sun is just edging above the horizon.  
  
After I have washed and dressed, I go to the kitchen. Maglor is curled up at the window pane, hugging his knees. He looks like he's been up for a while; his hair is combed and he's filched my tattered flip flops, which are a couple of sizes too big for his feet. He gazes at the cityscape with a faraway look in his eyes. "Good morning," he says quietly, without looking at me. No one's said that to me in a long time.  
  
"Morning. Do you want breakfast?" I ask, afraid that Maglor will somehow take offence at the question and leave.  
  
"No."  
  
He hasn't gotten up yet, I think with relief, so I prod, "Coffee?"  
  
He shifts a little. "...Yes." A pause. "Thank you."  
  
I begin to rummage around the kitchen cabinets. Maglor used to like his coffee with a spot of milk and a lump of sugar, but I don't know if his tastes have changed. I leave his coffee black and put sugar and milk on the side. He takes neither.  
  
We sit at the kitchen table and watch the sun's rays paint the city in pale gold. The coffee is cheap and stale and tastes like wood shavings, but we've lived on worse, so we pour ourselves a second cup each, then a third. I munch on a couple of biscuits and tap my finger on the table.  
  
Just as I think the silence is becoming uncomfortable, Maglor pulls a packet of Marlboro cigarettes from his jeans pocket and looks at me questioningly. "I didn't know you smoked," I say, but get up and retrieve a box of matches from a drawer below the sink.  
  
He gives a little shrug, tugs out a cigarette, and says, "Sometimes." He places the tube between his lips and takes the matchbox from me, nodding a thanks. When he lights the cigarette, I think he resembles a scruffy, teenage boy, all rebellious bluster and disregard for health. I chortle, and he looks at me sharply. "What's so funny?"  
  
"You," I say in a thick voice, and get up to open the window so he doesn't notice my expression and only thinks I mind the fumes. "You look so strange like that."  
  
I expect him to begin a diatribe about how embarrassing I am, or at least glare at me, but instead he averts his gaze and slowly breathes out a long plume of smoke. His silence disturbs me, and my heart begins to hammer as I sit back down. "What have you been doing?" I say. "Recently. Or – or all these years?" I am almost afraid of his answer, though I haven't the faintest idea what it will be.  
  
Maglor blinks slowly. He takes another deep drag, releases a breath, studies the faded watercolour landscape on the wall across from him. The portable fan purrs. Millions of tiny dust particles float lazily in the beam of sunlight that forces its way through the window. At length he crushes his cigarette in his plate and says, "Nothing."  
  
My hand twitches.  
  
"Nothing of significance," he continues. He fidgets with his fingers, the way he always did when he was anxious. I feel strangely proud that I remember this. "I've done odd jobs here and there, and I keep shifting from country to country – picked up one too many languages, if you ask me," he adds, and offers a half-smile.  
  
I frown. "What kind of jobs?"  
  
He looks to the window again and says in a somewhat strained voice, "Sometimes I care, sometimes I don't."  
  
"Maglor..."  
  
"I've earned my bread as a travelling musician, but you'd have guessed that. I've also worked as a flute-maker, a shop assistant, a waiter...nothing fancy, nothing that will draw attention to me." He swallows, and picks at his nails; his eyes drop to his hands. "Also worked in a brothel."  
  
There is a silence. "As..."  
  
"What do you think, Maedhros?" he says dryly. "So-called regular jobs aren't always available. Anyway, it was long ago. I didn't even want to tell you – "  
  
He doesn't continue, because I am half out of my seat and clutching the front of his t-shirt. "You," I growl. My blood is boiling. "How could you allow yourself to be used like that? I never even _considered_...And did you even _think_ about what I went through at Angband? How could you forget?"  
  
Maglor narrows his eyes, but shows no other sign of annoyance. "It was either that or starvation," he says. "I know what you've been through, Maedhros, but I'd be lying if I said I know what that kind of torture feels like. So it was easier for me than it would have been for you."

Furious, I release him and stand up. "I can't handle this," I mutter, shaking my head like I've been under water, and march to the exit. I rip my keys from their hook and leave, slamming the door behind me.  
  
I need a long walk.

***

It is early evening by the time I return. Dithering a little, I open my door and find Maglor in the same position he was in during breakfast. Perhaps he's been sitting there all along, or maybe he wandered about the place and just sat down at the kitchen table again. I don't ask. Instead I say, "Let's go out for dinner."  
  
He looks up at me and blinks twice.  
  
"You busy or something?" I ask, giving a wry smile. Maglor shakes his head and gets up unsteadily. "Maedhros, I'm sor – "  
  
"No, don't," I say quickly. "I just – I don't want to listen to apologies right now, or make them. I only..." I trail off. I know Maglor may not be up for eating at a restaurant – he much prefers eating at home. But he tilts his head to one side and says, "So, where are we going?"  
  
I run my fingers through my hair. "I haven't really decided yet."  
  
"Then we can decide when we're on the street."  
  
We take turns to shower in my little bathroom, then brush our hair and put on clean clothes and head outside. It feels nice to smarten up and to look forward to dinner with family.  
  
The evening air is cool and crisp, and we breathe it in deeply. On a whim I tilt my head up, wanting to see the stars, but smoky clouds curtain them off; the moonbeams barely pierce through the shrouds.  
  
"Do you have any place in mind?" Maglor asks, as he pushes his hands into his pockets. "You'd better choose fast. I haven't eaten all day, and neither have you."  
  
I don't have much money, but I recommend a nice restaurant a couple of blocks away. "Have you been there before?" he asks.  
  
"I've just heard about it from my co-workers, and it's been mentioned in a couple of magazines." In the pictures it had bright movie posters on the walls and daffodils on the tables, and apparently it plays old jazz numbers. I haven't seen Maglor in a long time, and don't want to be a cheapskate the first night we go out for a meal.  
  
When we enter the restaurant we are immediately assailed with Maynard Ferguson's 'Birdland'. Maglor hides a grin behind his hand, and I feel a surge of fondness for him. "I'm treating you, by the way. Don't argue," I warn when he opens his mouth to protest.  
  
We get a table by a window and peer at the menu for almost twenty minutes because there's a large, fancy selection of food. Finally we order two plates of pasta tossed with wild mushrooms and herbs. I don't know how you can go wrong with that, but the chef does – dismally so. Maglor and I look at each other as we take our first bites, and reach for our wine glasses to put some flavour in our mouths.  
  
"It's the stalls you ought to trust," Maglor says firmly, as we walk back. "When both prices and expectations are low, the food almost always tastes good."  
  
I think about my now miserably thin wallet and find myself grinning at how comically bad my decision was. It reminds me of how my life seems to be just one long list of bad decisions. "I only finished the wine because I haven't had alcohol in months."  
  
"I haven't had it in years. At least the music was enjoyable."  
  
He catches my eye, and we burst into chortles. I put my arm around his shoulders and plant a kiss on his hair – he stiffens a bit, but then relaxes – and try not to shudder at how brittle he feels. I get an awful image in my head of a wind swooping by and blowing him away like a piece of paper, and cling to him more tightly.  
  
"Maedhros..."  
  
"I  _missed_ you."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"Stop apologising," I snap, and he bites his lip and studies the grimy ground. A little abashed, I kiss him again and say helplessly, "I love you."  
  
He nods. After a moment he places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes, as if he's making sure I'm real. He presses his lips together and his face crumples like he's going to cry.  
  
I tell him he can stay another night, or two nights, or as long as he wants. Maglor rests his forehead against my chest and breathes unsteadily.  
  
Later, at home, I tuck him into bed and smooth his hair and tell him that he really ought to sleep. He blinks blearily, turns on his side and closes his eyes. I dither. I want to hum to him, but something in my throat sticks and I can't make a sound, so I lean my back against the wall and stay up in the dark till the birds begin to sing.  
  
At about seven I go to the kitchen to fix us breakfast. Feeling strangely lonesome with my brother asleep, I switch on the radio to chase away the silence, and a man drones on about the weather, his voice peppered with static.  
  
In ten minutes I shake Maglor awake. He doesn't make conversation, but he eats the baked beans and the toast on his plate. Then he clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck, and asks for some milk and sugar for his coffee.  
 

***

That night Maglor slips out of bed. I keep still, and make sure my breathing is even so he will think I am asleep, but crack one eye open. I catch glimpses of him as he shuffles around the room, putting on his clothes and lacing his sneakers. He disappears into my bathroom for a while, then comes out and tip-toes towards the curtain that leads to the kitchen.  
  
I wait till his fingers touch the fabric, then ask, "Going somewhere?"  
  
He gasps and jumps. "Oh. Maedhros," he says, his shoulders sagging. As he catches his breath I sit up and say, "You could have at least told me beforehand. If you wanted to leave, I...I would have let you." I try to keep the misery from creeping into my voice.  
  
Maglor doesn't say anything for a long moment. Then he releases a soft breath. "I wasn't leaving. Not like that." He switches on the light by the curtain, and we blink at each other in the sudden brightness. I notice he doesn't have his backpack with him, though he's combed his hair neatly. "Oh."  
  
He drops his gaze and scuffs his feet on the floor, looking like a schoolboy about to be punished.  
  
"Where were you going, then?"  
  
He gives a little shrug. "Just for a walk."  
  
I chew my lip as I recall that he used to enjoy night-time excursions. Occasionally we'd share a chamber in our home in Valinor, and at times I'd wake up and find Maglor's side of the bed empty. He was always back by the next morning, cheeks pink from fresh air and exertion. After the first panic, our parents eventually grew used to it; it's not as though they were famous for their tameness. Father even found my brother's antics amusing.  
  
Absently, I run my fingers through my hair, and grimace when they slip through the coarse edges at the base of my neck. I clear my throat. "Do you mind if I come with you?"  
  
He opens his mouth, then closes it and licks his lips. "Sure."  
  
We stroll for a long time. It's drizzling again, but a fresh breeze blows away the last of my grogginess. Maglor walks in silence, his eyes glazed over. I don't know who's leading who; as if our minds are synchronised, we seem to consider the same streets and alleys.  
  
Eventually Maglor stops. "We've walked quite a while," he says. I shake my head to return to my senses, and realise with surprise that we are across from Westminster Abbey. It is lit up like an overly elaborate stage set. I almost expect a string of actors in frilly costumes to prance along the pavement and burst into song.  
  
Maglor's breathing has grown uneven. I look at him, concerned; I want to ask him what's wrong, though somehow I feel I shouldn't talk. After a few moments he says, "I didn't want to see you again."  
  
I look back to the cathedral and pick at a loose thread on my jeans.  
  
"I'd grown afraid," Maglor continues, his voice artificially steady. "I didn't know what I'd do if I lost another member of my family." He fumbles with the hem of his t-shirt. "I thought what I was doing was best for us. I thought my love for you would fade if I stayed away from you, but it didn't." He looks to the side, away from me. "You shouldn't forgive me. I don't deserve it."  
  
"I forgive you, anyway." I don't really have to think about it. Maglor turns to me, eyes wide. I flick his temple, the way I used to when we were children, and give what I fancy to be a crooked smile.  
  
He says, "I'm a selfish fool."  
  
"Yes," I return. "I suppose we both are."  
  
Maglor's expression softens, and he looks at the sky. "Oh," he says. "It's morning."  
  
I tilt my head up as well. Indeed, the heavens are beginning to lighten, and the drizzle has stopped. Cars are driving past in increasing numbers, and some people are jogging on the sidewalk. The two of us sit down on a damp bench nearby and watch the stars gradually fade into day.  
  
I put an arm around my brother's shoulders. "We will find happiness again."  
  
Maglor nods slowly. "For now," he says, "this is fine."

_\- finis -_

Note: If you would like to read more about Maedhros and Maglor, you can check out '[The Abyss Between the Stars](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4884670)', '[The Starlit Sky](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1053452/chapters/2108714)', and '[The Hammer Does Not Fall](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1084421/chapters/2180698)' (on hiatus). 


End file.
